"So that's the youngster we're going to adopt, is it?" Mr. Pryor said;
then he looked at Helena through his curling brown lashes, with open
amusement. Her eyes were full of tears.
"It has been--so long," she said faintly.
"I've been very busy," he explained.
She nodded and smiled. "Anyhow, you are here now. But, oh, Maggie has a
sore throat. I don't know what we're going to have for dinner. Oh, how
glad I am you're here!" Her face was glowing, but her chin trembled.
"Why, this is very flattering, I'm sure; I thought you were so taken up
with your orphan that you wouldn't care whether I came or not."
"You know that isn't true," she said gayly, brushing her cheek against
his arm; "but isn't he a dear little fellow?--though I'm sorry his hair
isn't curly." Then her face changed. "What did he mean about Alice
being nineteen?"
"Oh, Alice? Why, he asked me in the stage if I had any children, and I
put Alice's age as a sum in mental arithmetic for him. And he asked me
if my name was Goliath."
But she had forgotten David. "Lloyd! To think you are here!"
"Yes, I'm here, and a hamper is here, too. I hope the stage will bring
it up pretty soon. I don't believe I could stand an Old Chester bill of
fare. It's queer about women; they don't care what they eat. I don't
believe you've got anything on hand but bread and jam and tea?"
"I care a great deal!" she assured him laughing, and then looked
worried. "Yes, I really have been living on bread and jam." She was
hanging on his arm, and once she kissed his hand. "Will you go
upstairs? And I'll see what we can do about food. That dreadful Maggie!
She's sick in bed."
Mr. Pryor looked annoyed. "Can't she get us something to eat? Ask her,
Nelly; I don't believe it will hurt her. Here; give her that," and he
took a crumpled bill out of his waistcoat pocket.
She did not take the money, but her eyes shone. "You are the most
generous being!" she said. Then, sobering, she thought of Maggie's
throat--hesitated--and Maggie was lost. For when she opened the woman's
door, and in her sweet, appealing voice declared that Mr. Pryor had
come unexpectedly, and was so hungry--what _should_ they do?--Maggie,
who adored her, insisted upon going down to the kitchen.
"Oh, Maggie, you oughtn't to! I oughtn't to let you. Maggie, look here:
you will be careful, won't you?"
"Now, you go right along back to your brother," the woman commanded
smiling. "I'm goin' to get into my clothes; t'won't do me a bit of
harm."
And Helena, protesting and joyous, fled to her room and to her mirror.
She flung off her cambric morning dress and ran to hunt in her wardrobe
for something pretty. With girlish hurry she pulled her hair down,
braided it afresh, and fastened the burnished plats around her head
like a wreath; then she brushed the soft locks in the nape of her neck
about her finger, and let them fall into loose curls. She dressed with
breathless haste, and when she finished, stood for a minute, her lip
between her teeth, staring at herself in the glass. And as she stared
her face fell; for as the color and sparkle faded a little, care
suddenly looked out of the leaf-brown eyes--care and something like
fright. But instantly drawing in her breath, she flung her head up as
one who prepares for battle. When she went down-stairs and found Mr.
Pryor waiting for her in the parlor, the sparkle had all come back. She
had put on a striped silk dress, faint rose and green, made very full
in the skirt; her flat lace collar was fastened by a little old pin--an
oval of pearls holding a strand of hair like floss-silk.
"Why, Nelly," her visitor said, "you look younger every time I see you."
She swept him a great courtesy, making her dress balloon out about her;
then she clasped her hands at her throat, her chin resting on the fluff
of her white undersleeves, and looked up at him with a delighted laugh.
"We are not very old, either of us; I am thirty-three and you are only
forty-six--I call that young. Oh, Lloyd, I was so low-spirited this
morning; and now--you are here!" She pirouetted about the room in a
burst of gayety.
As he watched her through half-shut eyes, the bored good humor in his
face sharpened into something keener; he caught her hand as she whirled
past, drawing her close to him with a murmured caress. She, pausing in
her joy, looked at him with sudden intentness.
"Have you heard anything of--_Frederick?_"
At which he let her go again and answered curtly: "No; nothing.
Perfectly well, the last I heard. In Paris, and enjoying himself in his
own peculiar fashion."
She drew in her breath and turned her face away; they were both silent.
Then she said, dully, that she never heard any news. "Mr. Raynor sends
me my accounts every three months, but he never says anything
about--Frederick."
"I suppose there isn't anything to say. Look here, Nelly, hasn't that
stage-driver brought the hamper yet? When are we going to have
something to eat?"
"Oh, pretty soon," she said impatiently.
They were standing at one of the long windows in the parlor; through
the tilted slats of the Venetian blinds the April sunshine fell in pale
bars across her hair and dress, across the old Turkey carpet on the
floor, across the high white wainscoting and half-way up the
landscape-papered walls. The room was full of cheerful dignity; the
heavy, old-fashioned furniture of the Stuffed Animal House was
unchanged, even the pictures, hanging rather near the ceiling, had not
been removed--steel-engravings of Landseer's dogs, and old and very
good colored prints of Audubon's birds. The mantel-piece of black
marble veined with yellow was supported by fluted columns; on it were
two blown-glass vases of decalcomania decoration, then two gilt lustres
with prisms, then two hand-screens of woolwork, and in the middle an
ormolu clock--"Iphigenia in Aulis"--under a glass shade. In the recess
at one side of the fireplace was a tall bookcase with closed doors, but
a claw-footed sofa stood out from the wall at an angle that prevented
any access to the books. "I can't read Stuffed Animal books," Helena
had long ago confided to Lloyd Pryor. "The British Classics, if you
please! and Baxter's _Saint's Rest_, and _The Lady of the Manor_." So
Mr. Pryor made a point of providing her with light literature. He
pulled a paper-covered volume out of his pocket now, and handed it to
her.
"Not improving, Nelly, I assure you; and there is a box of candy in the
hamper."
She thanked him, but put the book down. "Talk to me, Lloyd. Tell
me--everything! How are you? How is Alice? Are you very busy with
politics and things? Talk to me."
"Well," he said good naturedly, "where am I to begin? Yes: I'm very
well. And very busy. And unusually poor. Isn't that interesting?"
"Oh, Lloyd! Are you in earnest? Lloyd, you know I have a lot of money,
and of course, if you want it, it is yours."
He was lounging lazily on the sofa, and drew her down beside him,
smiling at her through his curling lashes. "It isn't as bad as that. It
is only that I have shouldered the debts of the old Pryor-Barr Co.,
Limited. You know my grandfather organized it, and my father was
president of it, and I served my 'prenticeship to business in it."
"But I thought," she said, puzzled, "you went out of it long ago,
before--before--"
"The flood? Yes, my dear, I did. I've only been a silent partner for
years--and that in a very small way. But I regret to say that the young
asses who have been running it have got into trouble. And they propose
going into bankruptcy, confound them! It is very annoying," Lloyd Pryor
ended calmly.
"But I don't understand," she said; "what have you to do with it?"
"Well, I've got to turn to and pay their damned debts."
"Pay their debts? But why? Does the law make you?"
"The law?" he said, looking at her with cold eyes. "I suppose you mean
statute law? No, my dear, it doesn't."
"Then I can't understand it," she declared laughing.
"It's nothing very abstruse. I can't have stockholders who trusted our
old firm cheated by a couple of cousins of mine. I've assumed the
liabilities--that's all."
"But you don't _have_ to, by law?" she persisted, still bewildered.
"My dear Nelly, I don't do things because of the _law_," he said dryly.
"But never mind; it is going to give me something to do. Tell me about
yourself. How are you?"
"I'm--pretty lonely, Lloyd," she said.
And he answered, sympathetically, that he had been afraid of that. "You
are too much by yourself. Of course, it's lonely for you. I am very
much pleased with this idea of the little boy."
She shook her head. "I can't take him."
"Why not?" he protested, and broke off. "Nelly, look! You are going to
have company."
He had caught sight of some one fumbling with the latch of the green
gate in the hedge. Helena opened her lips in consternation.
"Lloyd! It's old Mr. Benjamin Wright. He lives in that big house with
white columns on the top of the hill. Do you suppose he has come to
_call_?"
"Tell your woman to say you are out."
But she shook her head, annoyed and helpless. "Don't you see how tired
he is?--poor old man! Of course, he must come in. Go and help him,
Lloyd." She put her hands on his arm. "Please!" she said.
"No, thank you; I have no desire to help old gentlemen." And as she
left him and ran impetuously to open the door herself, he called after
her, "Nelly, don't have dinner held back!"
Mr. Benjamin Wright stood, panting, at the foot of the porch steps; he
could hardly lift his head to look up at the figure in the doorway.
"You--Mrs. Richie?" he gasped.
"Yes, sir," she said. "May I help you? These steps are so steep."
"No," he snarled. "Do you think I'm so decrepit that I have to have a
female help me up-stairs?" Then he began toiling up the steps. "My name
is Wright. You know my grandson? Sam? Great fool! I've come to call on
you." On the porch he drew a long breath, pulled off his mangy old
beaver hat, and, with a very courtly bow, held out his hand. "Madam,
permit me to pay my respects to you. I am your neighbor. In fact, your
only neighbor; without me,
'Montium domina ut fores silvarumque virentium saltuumque reconditorum
amniumque sonantum.'
Understand that? No? Good. I don't like learned females."
She took his hand in a bewildered way, glancing back over her shoulder
at Mr. Pryor, uncertain what she ought to do. Mr. Wright decided for
her.
"I know this house," he said, pushing past her into the dusky hall;
"friend of mine used to live here. Ho! This is the parlor. Well; who's
this?" He stood chewing orange-skin and blinking up at Lloyd Pryor, who
came forward reluctantly.
"My name is Pryor, sir, I--"
"Oh! Yes. _I_ know. _I_ know. The lady's brother. Here! Push that chair
out for me."
And Mr. Lloyd Pryor found himself bringing a chair forward and taking
the hat and stick from the trembling old hand. Helena had gone quickly
into the dining-room, and came back with a decanter and glass on a
little tray. She gave a distressed glance at her other guest as though
to say, "I can't help it!"
Benjamin Wright's old head in its brown wig was still shaking with
fatigue, but under the prickle of white on his shaven jowl the purplish
color came back in mottled streaks. He sipped the sherry breathlessly,
the glass trembling in his veined and shrunken hand. "Well," he
demanded, "how do you two like this God-forsaken place?"
Mr. Pryor, looking over their visitor's head at Helena, shrugged his
shoulders.
"It is very nice," she said vaguely,
"It's a narrowing place," he demurred, "very narrowing; sit down, sit
down, good people! I'll take some more sherry. My grandson," he went
on, as Helena filled his glass, "is always talking about you, madam.
He's a great jackass. I'm afraid he bothers you with his calls?"
"Oh, not at all," Helena said nervously. She sat down on the other side
of the big rosewood centre-table, glancing with worried eyes at Lloyd
Pryor.
"Move that lamp contraption," commanded Mr. Wright. "I like to see my
hostess!"
And Helena pushed the astral lamp from the centre of the table so that
his view was unobstructed.
"Is he a nuisance with his talk about his drama?"
Mr. Wright said, looking across at her with open eagerness in his
melancholy eyes.
"Why, no indeed."
"Do you think it's so very bad, considering?"
"It is not bad at all," said Mrs. Richie.
His face lighted like a child's. "Young fool! As if he could write a
drama! Well, madam, I came to ask you to do me the honor of taking
supper with me to-morrow night, and then of listening to this wonderful
production. Of course, sir, I include you. My nigger will provide you
with a fairly good bottle. Then this grandson of mine will read his
truck aloud. But we will fortify ourselves with supper first."
His artless pride in planning this distressing festivity was so
ludicrous that Lloyd Pryor's disgust changed into involuntary mirth.
But Helena was plainly nervous. "Thank you; you are very kind; but I am
afraid I must say no."
Mr. Pryor was silently retreating towards the dining-room. As for the
visitor, he only had eyes for the mistress of the house.
"Why should you say no?"
She tried to answer lightly. "Oh, I like to be quiet."
"Quiet?" cried Benjamin Wright, rapping the table with his wine-glass.
"At your age? Nonsense!" He paused, cleared his throat, and then
sonorously:
"'Can you endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister
mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to
the cold, fruitless moon?' Give me some more sherry. Of course you must
come. No use being shy--a pretty creatur' like you! And you said you
liked the play," he added with childlike reproach.
Helena, glad to change the subject, made haste to reassure him. "I do,
I do!" she said, and for a few minutes she kept the old face beaming
with her praise of Sam and his work. Unlike his grandson, Mr. Wright
was not critical of her criticism. Nothing she could say seemed to him
excessive. He contradicted every statement, but he believed it
implicitly. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he returned to his
invitation. Helena shook her head decidedly.
"No; thank you very much. Mr. Pryor couldn't possibly come. He is only
here over Sunday, and--" She looked towards the dining-room for
protection, but the door had been gently closed.
"Hey?" Benjamin Wright said blankly. "Well, I won't insist; I won't
insist. We'll wait till he goes. Come Monday night."
"Oh," she said, her voice fluttering, "I am sorry but I really can't."
"Why can't you?" he insisted. "Come, tell the truth! The advantage of
telling the truth, young lady, is that neither God nor the devil can
contradict you!" He laughed, eying her with high good humor.
"Oh, it's merely--" she hesitated, and he looked affronted.
"What! Some female airs about coming to an unmarried man's house?" Her
involuntary mirth disarmed him. "No? Well, I'm glad you've got some
sense. Then you'll come?"
"If I went to your house, it would seem unfriendly not to go to other
houses."
"Why shouldn't you go to other houses? Done anything you're ashamed
of?" He laughed uproariously at his own wit. "Come now; don't be
finikin and ladylike!"
"I don't make visits," she explained, the color rising angrily in her
cheeks.
"Gad-a-mercy! Why not?" he interrupted. "Do you think you're too good
for us here in Old Chester?"
"Oh, Mr. Wright!"
"Or perhaps Old Chester is too good for you?"
His face had softened wonderfully; he was looking at her with the same
quizzical delight with which he would look at one of his canaries when
he caught it, and held it struggling in his hand. "Are we too good for
you?" he jeered, "too--"
He stopped abruptly, his laugh breaking off in the middle. Then his
mouth fell slowly open in blank amazement; he leaned forward in his
chair and stared at her without a word.
"I don't care for society," she said, in a frightened way, and rose as
if to bring the visit to an end.
But Benjamin Wright sat still, slowly nodding his head. "You don't care
for society? I wonder why."
"Oh, because I am--a very quiet person," she stammered.
The dining-room door opened and Sarah came in, looked about, found the
decanter, and withdrew.
"Where is--that gentleman?" the old man demanded.
"Mr. Pryor went in to dinner," she said faintly. "Please excuse him; he
was tired."
The silence that fell between them was like a blow. ... Mr. Wright
pulled himself to his feet, and with one shaking hand on the table felt
his way around until he stood directly in front of her; he put his face
close to hers and stared into her eyes, his lower lip opening and
closing in silence. Then, without speaking, he began to grope about on
the table for his hat and stick.
"I will bid you good day," he said.
Without another word he went shuffling out into the dark hall. At the
front door he turned and looked back at her; then, slowly, shook his
head.